A regular character was that old
ostler; he was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had seen a great deal
of life in the vicinity of London, to which, on the death of his
parents, who were very poor people, he went at a very early age.
Amongst other places where he had served as ostler was a small inn
at Hounslow, much frequented by highwaymen, whose exploits he was
fond of narrating, especially those of Jerry Abershaw, who, he
said, was a capital rider; and on hearing his accounts of that
worthy, I half regretted that the old fellow had not been in
London, and I had not formed his acquaintance about the time I was
thinking of writing the life of the said Abershaw, not doubting
that with his assistance, I could have produced a book at least as
remarkable as the life and adventures of that entirely imaginary
personage Joseph Sell; perhaps, however, I was mistaken; and
whenever Abershaw's life shall appear before the public--and my
publisher credibly informs me that it has not yet appeared--I beg
and entreat the public to state which it likes best, the life of
Abershaw, or that of Sell, for which latter work I am informed that
during the last few months there has been a prodigious demand. My
old friend, however, after talking of Abershaw, would frequently
add, that, good rider as Abershaw certainly was, he was decidedly
inferior to Richard Ferguson, generally called Galloping Dick, who
was a pal of Abershaw's, and had enjoyed a career as long, and
nearly as remarkable as his own.
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